


Rockabye

by MajaLi



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-06
Updated: 2012-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-15 17:45:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajaLi/pseuds/MajaLi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Harvey could change one thing about himself, it would be this: he is really, really sick of getting motion sick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rockabye

**Author's Note:**

  * For [khasael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/khasael/gifts).



"This one should be easy." Harvey grins as he holds out his customary CD for Ray and reaches for his customary paper. Ray hands over the paper, but pushes the CD away with a regretful headshake.

"Sorry, Harvey," he says. "CD player's not working."

"Not—what happened?" Harvey demands, getting into the car after Mike. Ray would never do anything that could damage his precious car, and exactly no one, nothing, and nobody else sat in the front seat of limo. Ever.

"Remember how you had me take Ms. Macavey's granddaughter to the airport last night?"

Ah. Right. Not quite _nobody_.

"She had a lemon eclaire."

Harvey winces. "She squished it into the CD player?"

"She squished it into the CD player," Ray confirms. "The whole center display has to be replaced. I took it to the garage last night, but—"

Harvey waves off his apology as Ray pulls out into traffic. "Not your fault, and not a priority. The court house isn't that far downtown, it should only take us, what, twenty minutes?"

"Um," said Ray. "Did Donna not tell you _why_ your pickup got moved half an hour early?"

The bottom drops out of Harvey's stomach.

"Half of Broadway is closed off for some performance art thing. We're gonna be in stop-and-go traffic for about forty-five minutes, Harvey."

_Shit._

\-- -- --

The first ten minutes are more or less tolerable. Harvey hums Ima Robot songs under his breath and pretends Mike can't hear him, until he has to stop in favor of taking long, careful breaths through his nose. Ray keeps the ride as smooth as he can, rolling along at a snail's pace, barely tapping the pedals, but they have a motion hearing to make and there's only so much he can do against the tidal swells of a New York traffic jam.

The second ten minutes are uncomfortable, but still bearable. Harvey cracks a window, uncracks it just as quickly when they pass a steaming manhole cover, the familiar sharp-billowing city scent enough to make him gag, given the state he's in. Ray murmurs an apology as he brakes hard enough to raise bile in Harvey's throat, and even Harvey can't pretend away the worried, sidelong look Mike shoots him as he chokes it back down.

The third ten minutes, Harvey unbuckles his seatbelt, loosens his tie, unbuttons his waistcoat, and closes his eyes. He has exactly enough energy to keep from leaning his head back against the headrest and irrevocably messing his hair. Not an ounce more.

The last fifteen minutes are _hell_.

Instead of letting them out in front of the courthouse, Ray pulls around back, backing the car into a narrow alley beside the towering concrete wall of a parking garage. As soon as they stop, Harvey heaves open his door and swings his legs out, hanging his head between them and gasping heavy June air into his lungs. Behind him, he can hear Mike swear as he scrambles out of his side, shuffling through the narrow gap between the car and the wall until he can round the trunk and crouch by Harvey's side.

"Harvey, are you--"

"Time?" Harvey demands between breaths, straightening his tie and trying to decide if he can handle his waistcoat or should leave it in the car.

"Twenty 'til. The hearing starts at ten, but it's on the first floor."

"Fifteen minutes early is right on time," Harvey said sternly, and heaves himself to his feet.

Yeah. Definitely leaving the waistcoat in the car.

\-- -- --

The universe rarely has it in for Harvey Specter, but when it does, it goes all out. Harvey knows something was wrong the moment they step into the courtroom and are greeted not with a blast of cold air, but with a hot, rolling wave. Harvey swears he can feel the starch being leeched out of his shirt as he steps over the threshold, fights down the lingering nauseous twist of his stomach as it threatens to return.

"Hold this." He hands his briefcase to Mike and strides toward courtroom nine, rubbing his palms together to disperse the cold sweat before hauling open the broad wooden doors. Impossibly, it's even hotter inside the courtroom than in the lobby. Tall windows along the entire east wall catch far more summer sunlight than the clanking ventilation can keep up with, funneling it straight toward black leather chairs and dark mahogany tables. The wall behind the judge's bench has been freshly painted; Harvey winces as the gleaming white surface reflects right into his eyes. Mike follows suit, setting Harvey's briefcase on the table and laying out their papers before leaning toward him.

"Do you want to switch seats?" he murmurs, as Harvey comes back from greeting their opposing counsel and starts to take the seat closest to the center aisle. The other seat falls just barely into the shadow cast by the one paint scaffold that hasn't been cleared away yet. Harvey glares.

"Not unless you want to file the paperwork to become attorney of record," he says sternly. "And you get to explain to Jessica why a first-year associate tried to take over a fifty million dollar lawsuit."

"...I changed my mind, let's not switch seats."

"Good boy." Harvey glances across the aisle and gives the other lawyer a congenial nod before clasping his hands over his stomach and taking advantage of the last few moments he can close his eyes and just _breathe_.

"Docket KN-03545, Clarence Motors v. Ericson, the Honorable Judge Nigel Palermo presiding. All rise!" Harvey lurches to his feet as the bailiff calls order, buttoning his jacket and folding his hands as the elderly judge stumps out of his chambers and up onto the bench.

"You may be seated," he rumbles, waving everyone back into their seats. "Is the appellant ready?"

"We are, your Honor." The other lawyer rises to answer, then shoots Harvey a curious look as she sits back down – he'd practically collapsed as soon as the judge had given them permission.

"Is the appellee ready?"

"We are, your Honor." Harvey grips the table discreetly as he levers himself up to answer, trying to main a little more control this time.

"Then you may...ah...proceed." Fortunately, Judge Palermo seems more occupied with shuffling through his papers than assessing Harvey's courtroom demeanor. At least at the moment. "Counsel?"

"May it please the Court, your Honor..." As the other lawyer begins her opening statement, Harvey pushes down the brake on his rolling chair and scoots toward the edge, straightening his knees toward the floor to unbend his waist as much as possible and ease the pressure of his belt against his stomach. Priority one right now is feigning as much attention as possible, so he concentrates on the cold metal of his pen in his hand as he draws tight circles along the lines of his legal pad and tries to space out his sips of ice water. All too soon, though, his pen grows warm and slick from the clammy combination of sweat and condensation on his hands, and the water in his glass is well on its way to room temperature. Harvey nearly spits up his next sip, fighting to keep his lip from curling at the metallic taste it's taken on.

Suddenly, Mike's cool wrist is pressed against his own as he slips a fresh pen into Harvey's left hand.

"Take mine," he mouths, and follows it up by switching his untouched water for Harvey's and pouring a fresh glass from the carafe into Harvey's old glass. The judge shoots Mike a stern look as ice clinks and rattles out of the stainless steel spout; Mike tugs at his collar and coughs dryly, then gives him an apologetic shrug in return.

"If your associate is finished, counsel…?"

"Hm? Oh!" Harvey gets to his feet, not quite steady but at least not falling visibly to pieces. He ignores the judge's skeptical look as he makes his way to the center podium and fans his notes out in front of them. The words blur in front of his eyes, but days of practice let them ring clear in his ears. And if he speeds through the bulk of his argument and answers the judge's questions a bit more peremptorily than he normally would – well, this time he's _right_ , and Palermo knows it, and Harvey knows that he knows it. It was always just a question of whether they were really going to drag it out this far. Which is why…

"And now, with Your Honor's permission, I'll allow my associate to present the second issue before the court today—"

Palermo's eyebrows climb high into his hairline at that, and behind him Harvey can hear the thump and clatter of Mike knocking over the thankfully empty water pitcher. It's a bit of a dick move, Harvey can admit that, but it's perfectly legal and seriously, he is not going to risk losing this case by losing his lunch all over the courtroom. He leaves his notes up there for Mike just in case, even though the kid should know their argument verbatim, and sits down heavily. It's all he can do not to rest his elbows on his knees and let his head hang low, but Harvey manages it. He even gets in a few minutes of focus here and there, drifting in and out to the sound of Mike flailing his case around like a lunatic kid with a glow stick. It should come off as completely unprofessional, but it seems to work for Mike, and Harvey's never been to question a winning tactic.

Well. Except when it's Louis winning, but incredulity is more due to the man than to anything he might have done.

Somehow, Harvey makes it to his feet again when Judge Palermo rises, manages a crisp nod and a chorused "thank you, your Honor," when he announces he'll give them a verdict the following Monday. As soon as he disappears into his chambers, though, Harvey drops like a ragdoll. Mike scrambles to get under him, hauling Harvey's arm over his shoulders with a stream of quiet cursing. The other attorney looks almost apologetic as he holds the door open for them.

"We could have put this off," he grumbles, as Mike and Harvey pass. "No need to kill yourself over a little patent suit."

"Nah." Mike brushes him off, since Harvey can barely open his mouth. "Not that hard of a case, man. Besides, he's just motion sick.

"…you're joking."

"Come on, Harvey! Time to go find Ray!"

"No, seriously, tell me you're joking—"

"Joy of joys," Harvey groans, and decides that if he pukes? He's aiming for this guy's shoes.

\-- -- --

The ride home is almost as bad as the ride to the courthouse – not because the traffic's bad, but because at this point it's just piling on insult to injury. Or, more accurately, minor injury to injury-that-was-already-bad-enough-thanks. Harvey faceplants onto the sofa with a grateful groan as soon as he and Mike stumble over the threshold, moaning gratefully into the cool, satin throw pillows. He hears banging around in the kitchen, the whistle of the kettle and the clump-chunk-clatter of the icemaker, before Mike comes back to prod at his shoulder with a large, plastic stirring rod.

"Why're you still _here_?" Harvey whinges, but Mike steamrolls right over him.

"Up and at 'em," he says shoving a tall, damp glass at Harvey's face. "Iced ginger tea. Get undressed, drink it, and then go put on your pajama pants and lie down _in bed_."

"Can't." Harvey feels sick, even if he's not _sick_ sick, and when Harvey feels sick he knows perfectly well that he turns into a ridiculous five-year-old. Donna has spent years pounding this one, basic self-truth into Harvey's skull (it says something that this is the one that sticks). "Too tired. Pants inna morning."

"Pants _now_ ," Mike insists, which is unfair considering that Harvey is still, you know, technically wearing pants. He points this out to no avail and finds himself being manhandled into a sitting position, tasked with sipping his tea slowly and carefully while Mike strips him out of his surprisingly sweaty suit. "I'm appropriating your shower after this, by the way."

"Mmhm."

Harvey puts the empty glass down on the coffee table and lets himself flop over sideways, his boxers riding up the side of his thigh. He closes his eyes, listening to the sounds of Mike wandering around in the apartment, rummaging through his dresser drawers while he starts the shower running in the background. A cool lump of fabric lands on Harvey's ribs.

"Come on, man, I'm serious." Mike prods his knee; Harvey can't be bothered to bat him away. "If you're still pantsless when I get back, I'm gonna be forced to get up close and personal with your junk. You really okay with that?"

Harvey considers the question and fails to see a downside.

"…mmhm."

"Of course," Mike groans, fading away into the soft click of the bathroom door. "Eff my _life_."

Harvey must drift off then, to the hum of the air conditioner and the susurration of the shower and the sound of Mike murmuring half-remembered lyrics. He knows this because the next thing he registers are warm, hands settling under him, shifting him up and over – there's movement, jostling, shaky enough to make him groan as his stomach surges unpleasantly – then a cool sheet settling over him.

"Howsa…what…"

"I work out, you know," Mike grumbles. " _And_ I bike to work every day. Jeez."

"Mm-mm." Harvey shakes his head, manages to curl his fingers into Mike's shirt, even with his eyes closed. He tugs sharply, once, and smiles into the pillow when Mike goes down with a grunt, sprawled over Harvey's chest.

"This can't be good for your stomach."

Harvey just grumbles and wraps his arms more firmly around his associate.

"…okay. Yeah. Whatever you say, boss."

"Damn straight."


End file.
